


Consumed

by foundCarcosa



Category: Dragon Age
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-13
Updated: 2012-06-13
Packaged: 2017-11-07 16:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/433008
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foundCarcosa/pseuds/foundCarcosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Idle hands are a desire demon's playground," they say.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consumed

“Now, remember, you’ll need to sit in on Enchanter Saria’s lessons tomorrow morning, and in mid-afternoon you have a meeting scheduled with that one unruly apprentice, you know the one…”

“Yes, yes.” Orsino murmurs, eyes flicking over the documents strewn over his desk. Restlessly he sweeps them into a semi-contained stack, half-listening to the Senior Enchanter’s prattling. “Aria, from Antiva. Yes, I know. Thank you, Dominic.”

“Oh, and—”

“ _Thank_ you, Dominic.” The fretful mage subsides under Orsino’s steady, pointed gaze, and nods briskly before backing out of the First Enchanter’s office. Orsino breathes a heavy sigh and places a hand on the sheaf of papers, closing his eyes.  
His shoulders sag and his head droops. Too much… all too much.

Meredith’s strident voice cuts into his languor, and his head snaps up like a puppet on a tightly-held string. Moments later, a scruffy lad in templar armour would skulk out of her office, barely seen through the gap between Orsino’s door and its frame, and maybe Orsino would catch a glimpse of the Knight-Commander’s flushed face and flaxen hair before her door slams shut—

Absently, his hand slips between the folds of his robes, under gold braid and red brocade and heavy blue cotton, and the chair creaks as he lets his weight sink into it.

Meredith tosses her head and throws back her shoulders when she speaks to him, haughtiness and contempt curling her lip and sharpening her eye, and though Orsino stubbornly sets his jaw and jabs his index finger at her, it’s all a mockery — he cannot command her the way she can him, and he wouldn’t want it any other way.

Under the robes is bare, untended flesh, nerve endings that awaken quickly at his own touch, and Orsino lets his fingers drift over the smooth plane of his abdomen and down, down into the silken thatch where legs meet hips.  
Meredith is fire and ice crystallised and hardened, a puppeteer and a leash-holder, a glare that can suborn a crowd. She needs no armour to make herself formidable; her templars would quail before her were she wearing naught but a night-shift and slippers. She is a true leader, but much more than this — she is dominance personified, the crack of the whip and the thud of the gavel, the edge of the sword and the breadth of the shield.

Orsino sighs as his hand curls around an already-hardening shaft, eyes slipping closed and muscles relaxing further. He is limp in the chair as he strokes, slowly, languorously, his head lolling back against the chair’s cushioning.  
Once, he was praised for these fingers, these long, thin instruments of dexterity that could coax light out of darkness and flame out of dry tinder. But it was her strong hands he craved, the callouses from sword-wielding and the firm, sure grip, the brisk friction and the cunning mercilessness. He stroked himself harder, quicker, but all he felt was a soft, fleshy palm that he knew all too well. But he could imagine, could he not…

He could imagine her driving him into the wall, his robes unclasping and collapsing in a heap under him while her armour remains intact. Imagine the way it would dig into him, into the hollows of his joints and the dips between his bones, as she overwhelms him, clamping her hand just under his chin, driving her thigh into the gap between his thighs and grinding hard until he shudders and makes his feeble attempts at escaping her, at _breathing,_ at doing _something_ that wasn’t prompted by her will alone. She would recline on brocade and velvet and curl her hand in his hair while he worshipped her with his tongue, pressing his fist into his lap as if to quell the fire that raged there, knowing that until she arched and hissed and cried out for him there would be no relief in sight…

Orsino’s free hand darts out for the desk as he feels himself sliding out of his seat, and he eventually abandons it altogether to fall to his knees, one arm draped over the again-scattered contents of the desk as his other hand works fervently beneath the robes. He rests his forehead on the cool cherry wood and gulps in breath after breath, trying to pace himself, but he cannot stop the images from spilling forth — Meredith half-clad and flushed from head to toe, pieces of armour clattering to the floor as she strips; Meredith with dagger to his throat, eyes drifting to the rivulet of blood trickling down to his collarbone before her tongue makes short work of it; Meredith with her hands over his eyes and throat as she rides him furiously, grinding against him with a vicious insistence — _bring me, damn you, bring me now!_ —

His breath catches in his throat and his body tenses. The hand on the desk makes a sudden, tight fist, crumpling several sheets of precious paper in the process. And just as his hidden hand tightens around the head of him to finish the job, an all-too-familiar set of fingers tugs on his hair and jerks his head back and up.

“If you’re going to kneel, First Enchanter,” Meredith murmurs, digging her nails into his scalp, “you’ll have to do it better than that.”


End file.
